The Ice in Our Bones
by SnakeFeathers
Summary: HYDRA beat SHIELD to the wreckage, retrieving an alive Steve Rogers from his icy tomb. Viable, HYDRA quickly starts work on its newest and deadliest weapon. However, the Captain's presence is damaging the Winter Soldier, bringing out erratic, dangerous behavior. Two men, brothers both lost to the cold embrace of time and caught in the tendrils of HYDRA, must find a way to survive.
1. From Cold That Killed Me, You Woke

**AN**- hello all, Nasomta here! Don't worry, I'm not abandoning _Waking Ghosts_ or anything, I just need a little break to get my thoughts in order for that fic. It's really emotionally draining to write, so I wanted to take a break and write something a little different. This is an AU I've had stewing for a long time, and finally put pen to paper on it. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it!

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><p>The cold's touch hardly registered against his skin, the darkness little more than a hollow comfort, hidden among the fallen snow like the ghost others rumored him to be. Figures haloed in green stood out among the dancing flakes of snow, milling about the decayed corpse of the plane they had tried and failed to rouse from its prison in the ice. The rifle fit in his arms as if nature had carved a place for it there, the night-scope pressed close to his face as he monitored the targets in their SHIELD-emblazoned arctic gear. As expected, they didn't even know that crosshairs were painted over their hearts. Not yet.<p>

"_Wait until you see the target brought out of the plane_", his handler spoke through the com-unit in his ear, "_Let them do the work of extracting it and then take them out and signal the recovery crew_." The Asset gave no verbal response, merely going back to his silent vigil of the targets through his rifle scope. Artificial blood and muscles whirled unhappily in his prosthetic, the frigid air coiling through the internal structures like a serpent of ice, stiffening joints and gnawing at tendons with every slight movement. The discomfort it caused was only dimly acknowledged; pain was a distraction, only used to tally and identify damage to himself to report to his handlers. He wouldn't let it interfere with his mission.

Time had little weight in the assassin's mind, hours flitting by as he remained motionless in the snow, waiting for the right signals to strike. Constant stints in cryo had made his body efficient at rationing his heat, his heartbeat lazing slowly in his chest and breath little more than an afterthought. The predator in his mind slumbered placidly for the moment, waiting for the first sight of injury, the scent of blood in the wind, and only then would it wake and bare its teeth. But it needed a signal, a sign, a prompt to lunge with claws out and snarling, and so far there had been no sign—

"_Soldier, the target is being extracted from the wreckage on the South face of the plane. Engage._"

Not even a single moment's hesitation passed before the Soviet opened fire, picking off three of the SHIELD agents before the even heard the crack of the rifle. The other HYDRA agents that had been dispatched with him quickly swarmed the impromptu base camp a half-click out of his sight to the south, overwhelming any force there before backup could be called. Everything was going to plan.

When the surviving agents crowding the plane wised up to there being a sniper, the Asset had no choice but to abandon his vantage point and move in close. The muzzle-mask and goggles obscured almost all of his face, the wispy vapor of his breath hissing through the slats into the thin air; he looked alien, blank, and just as inhuman as he had been molded. His movements were silent, calculated and confident, boasting all the prowess of a predator as he reached the exposed wing of the aircraft, ducking beneath it and waiting.

Screams and barked orders echoed within the metallic husk that had once been a great warbird, and the assassin quickly slung his rifle over his back, opting for a pistol. He judged there were only a few SHIELD agents and Russian oil emissaries left alive; barely a challenge for one such as him. This whole mission was almost a disappointment, or it would have been if such emotions were still present in his consciousness. His mind was a whirl of tactics and scenarios, goals and objectives and targets; there was no place for something as petty and fragile as emotions.

With a click of the safety sliding off the Asset plunged down through a crack in the aircraft's fuselage, rolling into a crouch as soon as he hit bottom. An explosion of panicked yelling and shouting was all he needed to pinpoint the agents in the dark, firing off three precise shots. The yelling was silenced, a dull, wet thud echoing down the belly of the plane as one of his messier hits slumped to the ice. Silence greeted his ears, not a heartbeat nor breath piercing that veil, and he knew that he was alone. _Find the target_. The pistol was holstered, back straightened with a jerky movement of metal and mesh-merged spine, before he set out down the bomb bay towards the cockpit.

The ice crunched underfoot, loud and jagged and jarring, making him feel exposed for the first time in a very long span. Stealth was his partner in his constant dance with death, his one and only companion, and it had abandoned him in the darkness of this tomb of metal. Even with the thick goggles he could see clearly in the dark, his eyes sharp and focused in the low light. The footsteps in the fragile ice underfoot quickly lead him towards the ruined cockpit, which was almost entirely excavated and cleared.

Abandoned flares filled the vacant space with jumping light, reflecting off a million surfaces of metal, ice and glass. "_The target is a body, retrieve it and return to the rendezvous point, Soldier_." A body was an odd object to send him to collect, but the Soldier didn't question his orders. He obeyed, completed his task, and was rewarded with the all-encompassing cold of painless sleep. It was the only reprieve from his own mind, which was always too loud, too jumbled, too fractured for him to have any measure of peace.

A survey of the cockpit quickly located his quarry, hidden away on a stretcher against the far wall, flush with the floor. He dimly noted that the SHIELD agents must have been preparing to move him when he began the attack. Chatter filled his ear from the other agents converging outside the plane, securing it and picking off any surviving SHIELD members. It would only take them a few minutes for him to collect his target and meet with them at the extraction point, and the mission would be complete. Simple, quick, clean. Just like Pierce preferred.

The air in the cockpit felt heavy, weighing down on the Soldier in a way he wasn't familiar or comfortable with. It made his insides twist up; it was as if he was encroaching on something sacred, breaking some unspoken vow, some law written in blood. It was childish and foolish, he knew that, but he still approached the body cautiously, knowing that there very well could be a trap of some sort set up by the last agents as they fled.

All thoughts of traps and danger seemed to drain out of him, however, as soon as he laid eyes on the man's face. The asset had expected decay, to tote back bones and tattered clothing, not someone who merely appeared to be sleeping. It was unnerving in a way he had never felt before. Ice still clung to his brightly-colored uniform in places, dusting his pale skin and blond hair like glassed eggshell. Color, although faint, still painted his features like an artwork from some long forgotten age. The blueness of his lips, the stillness of his chest, it tore at something in the Asset's mind in a way even the predator of his instincts couldn't do; it was _fear_.

Pulling his glove off with his teeth and prying off his goggles to see better, the Soldier was crouched on the floor and hovering over the body in an instant, living fingers pressed to the target's neck as he searched for a heartbeat that had long since faded. The man's skin was as cold as the crystalline tomb that had cradled him for decades, but hidden beneath it was the hesitant, sleepy pulse of a man rousing from a deep slumber. The death he'd mistaken earlier was instead a body moving in slow motion, pulling itself out of a torpor the likes of which the assassin hadn't known was possible for a human being to enter and survive. And yet here, breathing and heart beating beneath his fingers, this man was somehow pulling himself from the very embrace of death.

"Complications with target," his voice was rough, cutting through the aimless noise of the other agents on the com, "It appears the body is… alive. Requesting updated objectives." He had no idea what to do. The body was not a body, and therefore mission parameters had changed. Acting on his own had been… _enthusiastically discouraged_ by his handlers, therefore he refused to act further unless he was given a new objective to work towards.

"_Mission update, Soldier; keep target alive until medical team arrives at your location_." With a new mission firmly implanted into his programming, the Asset easily shook off his earlier unease and hesitation. The movement of his target's chest was growing more noticeable, the faintest wheeze rising above the sound of the com in his ear. A slight twitch of the corner of the man's mouth, fingers curling slightly as if reaching for an unseen goal, were all signs his nervous system was starting to function again as he pried death's jaws from his own throat.

Even though he had never treated anyone other than himself and a scattered few HYDRA agents on missions, let alone anyone in a condition such as this, it felt as though his body knew what to do where his brain was lagging and unsure. The Winter Soldier moved with steady hands that had ended more lives than he could count, carefully lifting the man so that he was in a sitting positon. He held him steady with one hand while metal fingers tugged at the zipper of his own jacket, sliding it open and rolling his shoulders so that the thick, insulated gear came free easily.

The man was a little more fully built than he was, so he wrapped his jacket around him like a blanket, hoping his meager body heat would work to bolster his circulation somewhat. He couldn't find any observable wounds, first aid pushed back on his list of priority, while keeping the man from going back into his suspended animation took precedence. Some part of his mind that had been dormant for decades seemed to be slowly awakening along with the man, tired and weak and _desperate_. The predator of his programmed instincts was abated by his orders, although he could still hear it whispering encouragements of bloodshed from its nest in his subconscious. It was fighting against that long-sleeping part of his mind, tearing into it, trying to prevent some outcome from coming to pass. It was giving him a headache.

"C… c… c-c…" the man's stuttering, choked voice caught the Asset's attention, all thoughts of self swiftly abandoned in favor of completing the mission. His expression was pained, eyes screwed shut and mouth downturned with brows furrowed; he was no doubt feeling the effects of his unkind torpor as he became aware of himself. _He shouldn't be talking_, was all the Winter Soldier thought, _this isn't right he should be __**dead**_. The mask that covered most of his face obscured his frown, how he bit his lip in thought, but without his goggles the confusion in his eyes was evident. This wasn't right, _this wasn't right_.

"Shh," his voice was muffled behind the muzzle-mask, but it seemed to have the effect he wanted, as the man stopped his attempts at talking and some of the tenseness left his face. "Shh," The Soldier repeated, tone softer than he'd heard his own voice in lifetimes, "Don't speak." The man remained silent, but after a clearly great effort his eyes fluttered open, half-lidded but meeting his own confused gaze. Cloudy, hazy with sleep and exhaustion they looked almost grey, which caused the assassin's stomach to lurch. _Not right, should be blue_. Why they should be blue he couldn't say, but those eyes were _wrong_.

There was a long, silent minute as the two men stared at each other, neither moving nor breaking eye contact with the other. It was somewhat unsettling to the Soviet, but some part of broken him found it assuring. The man tried to move, and normally he would have reacted instantly, violently, but he refused to look away from those wrong-colored eyes. The jacket he had wrapped around him shifted, his target struggling against it weakly, before he managed to free one arm.

_Unarmed, not a threat_. The man seemed to not pose a threat, and since he was needed alive, the Winter Soldier let him reach towards him with a shaky hand unimpeded. If it kept the target from hurting himself or alerting SHIELD, then the Asset could care less what he did to him. He had no worth past his usefulness on the field. It didn't stop him from tensing when trembling fingers numbly brushed against the muzzle-mask, eye contact maintained between them. Something flickered across the man's eyes, which were slowly clearing into a brighter hue, but the assassin didn't understand what it was.

"…. M... m'I… d-d… ead…?" the target's voice was barely audible, but spoke a coherent word this time. Despite the relative clarity, the HYDRA agent didn't know what he meant. He could hazard a guess but his mission was not to engage in conversation, it was to keep his target alive for whatever reason his handlers had. That sleepy part of his mind, however, spoke up for the first time in what may as well have been a century, foreign yet as familiar as the metal that made up his left arm as it chimed in his mind.

_No, you're not dead, pal. HYDRA can't touch you if you're dead._


	2. From Silence that Held Me, You Spoke

**AN**- Haha shit ok so first of all I'm sO SORRY this update is so overdue. Things happened, my muses bounced between different fics, and I am a terrible writer. I've got a good deal of this fic planned out I just need to actually sit down and write it. It's just hard because this is a very emotionally taxing fic due to its dark nature so I'm sorry to say future updates will continue to be sporadic and the word count on the short side as I get the plot set up. But, as I said, I do have most of this fic plot-wise completely figured out. So just keep your eyes open!

Also, bare in mind, since loss of sense of self is a big part of this fic, if you have issues with depersonalization and disassociation please read this only on good days! Due to this, Bucky will not refer to himself by any name and will also refer to other people by titles as well in addition to names. There is blood, slight gore and medical stuff in this chapter!

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><p>"Mission report."<p>

Eyes the color of the ice still clinging to his uniform cut from a white-coated tech to the man addressing him, expression blank and unreadable. Surprise settled in on him when he realized that the suited man was actually here in person, having expected just a video feed. It wasn't often that the leader of HYDRA himself stepped out of the lair he'd carved for himself in the Triskelion. The prompt elicited an immediate response from the Asset, whom straightened in the creaky metal chair he was sitting in, head tilted back and arms loose in his lap; all monikers of complete submission.

"Mission successful; target was extracted and kept alive as requested. No complications." The Winter Soldier recounted the mission, voice even and low. The updated objectives had been completed as described, the target delivered, and he had reported to debrief as always instructed after missions. Pierce seemed content with the answer he provided, clapping his hand on his unscarred shoulder in congratulations.

"Your work is always of great help to us, but especially this. As a reward, go and make sure everything is going smoothly with the new recruit. Once word spreads I'm sure he'll be quite popular with the agents, so how about you keep them off him for a while?" It wasn't an option, it was a prettied-up command and the Soldier did not resist or otherwise reply, getting to his feet and walking past the aging man and out into the hall.

The base had erupted into a flurry of activity the moment he brought his target back in. For some reason he felt an innate instinct towards the man—possessiveness wasn't the word but it was the only one he knew—to the point that he hadn't let anyone else take him from him until they landed here. The moment he was sure the mission was completed and the man had not fallen back into his torpor he had relinquished him to the medical staff.

The entire flight back on the Quinjet had caused him a great deal of mental stress, his target eliciting strange responses from him that weren't indicative of the programming. The target had curled up into a ball in his arms, making himself small, one of his cold hands hooked into a strap on the Soldier's tactical vest. As his body woke up he began to shiver more and more, his breathing difficult and wheezy in a way that was almost familiar. He hadn't warmed up fast enough for the Soldier's liking, and before he even registered what he was doing he'd unzipped his heavy insulated vest, pulled the man against him fully and wrapped the edges around him as if he was trying to hide him inside of his clothing. It was surely comical, seeing as Rumlow had let out a snorting laugh at the sight, but the Soldier didn't care. The target's shivering had dropped off and he'd begun babbling nonsense, disjointed words of "dance" and "cold" and "Bucky".

_Bucky_

That word had lodged itself in his mind the deepest. It bounced around inside his skull, reverberated against the programming, stirred some long slumbering part of him. Hearing it triggered something inside of him, made him want to snarl and lash out at every operative near them, not let anyone touch his target. He'd hooked his metal arm around the target's torso, hand pressed along his spine where he rubbed small, soothing circles. He'd felt like he'd switched into some other mindset, where some other, ancient set of programming had taken over and guided his limbs in a sort of auto-pilot. It was alarming but also so oddly familiar.

The Soldier's thoughts dropped away as he entered the medical bay where they were keeping his target, the room a maelstrom of busy techs and doctors all talking in hushed and astonished tones. The man himself was limply laid out on an examination table, parts of his uniform peeled back or missing. He was lifeless and still, and something inside the Soldier tightened up and stopped. He could hear the constant beeping of a heart monitor, assurance he was alive, but seeing him unmoving and silent set something inside of him on edge, made him want to grit his teeth scream at the techs to get away.

Protocol forbade him from interrupting the techs' work and he instead sat himself as close to the man as he could without raising suspicions. The doctors and white coats were used to his presence, treating him as little more than a filled void of space, stepping around and talking over him as if he didn't exist. Some of the HYDRA agents feared him but most people in the base merely acknowledged his presence and went on with their lives as if he was merely a silent guard dog which, in a way, he was.

The technical and medical babble that bounced back and forth over the body of his target as the doctors worked was dizzying but the Asset listened to every word, soaked in every statement and stored it in the back of his head. It seemed important for some reason he couldn't quite rationalize. _Deep tissue freezing, lung damage from saltwater, blood vessel damage due to blood freezing._ He made a mental checklist of every aliment he could hear being assessed, tucking it away into his programming. Already he had a half-formed list of materials and items he would need to somehow acquire to help with treatment, even though he was well aware medical detail was not among his operating parameters.

With endless movement the white coated techs hovered and crowded over his target, sterile gloved hands stained rust red with blood. They reminded the Soldier of a cluster of vultures tearing into an injured, helpless animal. The sight of it raised a constricting coil of heat in his chest, anger and fear and the need to protect all twisted into one sickening emotion. He wanted to lunge at them and chase them away, place himself beside the man and guard him, but he had no idea _why_. The want was there, the pull to move closer, but he planted himself firmly and refused it. He couldn't interfere, he couldn't interrupt.

He sat in silent observation as hours ticked by, barely noticing as his entire focus was centered on his target. They had either sedated him or the man had lost consciousness as he hadn't moved or made a sound the entire time, even as they flayed open his skin to inspect how deep the tissue damage extended, or when then started running heated IVs into his bloodstream and hot fluids down his throat to try and equalize his temperature before thermal shock could kill him. Apparently his abrupt return to consciousness in the field had put him in danger. It distressed the Soldier even though he had seen, and done, far worse in his many years in the field.

"Soldier," his gaze snapped up immediately, Pierce having walked right up beside without his noticing. That alone was a critical oversight, his focus so narrowed that he'd lost touch with his surroundings, and he expected swift reprimand. A long moment passed between them, Pierce's eyes roaming for a brief second before he continued speaking. "Soldier," the man repeated, "You've been down here for six hours. Did you forget you were supposed to report for briefing on your next mission with agent Rumlow?" The jolt that shot through the Soldier could be nothing else but fear, eyes widening the slightest fraction and jaw slack.

"I-", the Soldier's voice fumbled, "I have not completed my prior mission, it has priority over the new mission." The response did not appear to be satisfactory, as his handler's brow creased and his mouth set into a firm line.

"What mission, Soldier? You said yourself that the mission was complete when I spoke to you at debrief." Pierce's voice was calculated and flat, something that the Soldier knew was very, very dangerous. He had done something wrong, and any failure was met with swift and painful punishment. He was a good soldier, he did what was he was told to do and he did it well, and he would take any reprimand given for his faults without protest.

"Protect." The Soldier replied, eyes tracking Pierce's hand as he waved over one of the doctors, "Protect the target. I'm supposed to protect the target." His answer must have been another mistake, for Pierce did not respond or address him and instead began speaking in hushed tones to the doctor. They occasionally looked to him but continued talking, murmuring quickly in a language he couldn't quite catch.

"And, who gave you this mission, Soldier?" both Pierce and the doctor watched him closely, assessing him like predators eyeing their prey. The Soldier felt as though he was laid bare and defenseless; he was a weapon, not a person, he was not permitted to make mistakes and he was not permitted choice like human agents were. His thoughts were a whirling mess, struggling to answer. No one had given him the mission, it had merely settled itself into his programming as if it was the most natural thing in the world. Which meant there was only one logical source from which the mission could have originated.

"… I did." The Soldier's gaze cut down, settling on Pierce's shoes. It was the wrong answer, he knew it, but it was the truth. He had given himself a mission, something that was strictly forbidden. He knew it would mean the chair, mean the tube and the cold, but he could _not_ lie. Lying was something only people could do, and he was not a person.

"You did?" The doctor suddenly repeated, shifting his weight in the Soldier's field of view, "Secretary, sir, the Captain's presence might have had unforeseen effects. He should be wiped immediately—"

"Soldier," Pierce cut the other man off, the Soldier's head snapping up to meet his gaze, "Tomorrow at 0800 you are to report to Floor Seven for a reset. Until then, continue with your mission but do not engage in verbal communication with the target should he regain consciousness, understand?" The Soldier gave a sharp nod, confused and surprised by the sudden leniency from his handler. The wipe was unavoidable, but the chance to complete a mission of his own issuing? He was being given a very rare gift and he was not going to waste it.

"Yes, sir."

"Good, now, see to it that your target is in perfect condition tomorrow or there will be consequences. And remember, do not try and communicate with him; he is a very dangerous man and we can't risk you being compromised. Do not disobey orders again or you will be punished, do I make myself clear, Soldier?"

"Yes, sir."

Pierce smiled his predatory grin and turned to the techs, ordering them to cease their examinations and get the man stable enough for a holding cell. The Soldier was still unsure as to why he was being allowed to carry out a mission of his own but it was not in his place to question, so he remained silent and passive as they prepped his target to move. He himself was ushered out of the room and given a fresh change of clothes and told to remove all of his battle gear. The clothes he was given were not standard issue, simple pants with a worn white shirt displaying a golden eagle emblem on the front, but he put them on regardless.

Without the tight pressure of the vest around his torso he felt somewhat exposed, although he still had about a half dozen knives on his person and one pistol stuffed into a pocket. He didn't need them, he was safe here, but to be unarmed was to be useless and HYDRA did not tolerate uselessness. His metal arm was exposed by the short sleeves, and as he approached the cell they were moving his target into one of the techs motioned for him to stop.

"That'll never do, he can't know things've changed." The man muttered, pointing to a chair for him to sit while he turned to dig through a supply closet. The Soldier did as he was told, he was fully obedient to anyone who was HYDRA, watching him idly for his next command. He didn't know what he had meant with that comment but he assumed it had something to do with his self-appointed mission, so he waited patiently for him to return before he continued with his task.

"Here, keep this on but leave the front unbuttoned. This'll cover the arm and prevent him from seeing it. Remember, you're not supposed to talk to him about anything. No dates, no missions, nothing." The tech talked as he watched the Soldier done the musty jacket, a simple thing missing half of the buttons on the front but well-worn and comfortable. It had to be decades old and was scuffed and torn and frayed, made of simple heavy fabric that was vaguely familiar. "Keep him from doing anything too stressful on his body and keep him calm. Pierce said not to talk but if he starts to show distress you can try and speak, just don't tell him anything." He added on, removing the muzzle-mask with a swift tug. "There will be guards posted outside. Do not let him out of the room or they will shoot him."

The tech opened the door to the cell and let him inside. It looked more like a hospital room than a cell, old cinderblock walls and floors the same as when the base was built decades earlier. His target's cot was up against the wall, as far away from the door as possible. The techs had dressed the man in a simple shirt and pants that already were flecked with crimson, covering the multitude of bandages and wrappings that hid their explorations. The Soldier had seen the same wounds on his own body, the techs always eager to see how his body healed from the effects of cryo, but seeing them on the other man made his blood boil in his veins.

Beeping steadily, the heart monitor at least displayed that his target had stabilized well after their botched attempt to raise his temperature equally. The rhythm of it was soothing to the Soldier although for some reason he kept expecting to hear it hitch and sputter, but it never came to pass. His breathing was ragged and wheezy from the damage to his lungs, skin pale and almost translucent with a sickly sheen. Without the ice and the frost he looked… warm was the only word that came to mind. Bright. Sunshine in summer.

The stark, dingy room was small and it made him anxious. Tight spaces reminded him of the tube, of the cold and the burn of frost blooming on his skin. He paced and moved around the room, flicking and retracting one of his switchblades in nervous habit. He felt like a predator locked in a cage and he wasn't even sure why. The Soldier had known confinement and control every moment of his life but this was somehow different. The presence of the other man made him want to bolt, to break them out and escape but just _why_ eluded him.

His arm whirled and the plates recalibrated under the sleeves of the jacket, mirroring his distress. Eventually he found himself hovering over the cot, inspecting every little thing the doctors had done. He picked at bandages and pressed living fingers to flesh that still exuded the cold of his icy tomb. The air was heavy with the scent of sea salt and the crisp bite of snow that still clung to his target's skin, something about it almost familiar in a fond sort of way, not in the same manner as how the cold reminded him of cryo.

"… Buck…?"

The sound of the man's voice nearly made the Soldier flinch, having not even noticed his eyelids flutter open or the slight flurry of the heart monitor. This man is either too stubborn to stay unconscious or something else has given him amazing resiliency, or perhaps both, but the Soldier quickly abandons all other thoughts and focuses on his mission. _Keep him quiet, keep him controlled. Protect_. He didn't respond to the name but it triggered something like familiarity in his head, and before he knew he'd reached out with his right hand and brushed a few strands of unruly blond hair from the man's eyes. He was moving on some strange sort of instinct that he couldn't explain.

"B-Buck… how…?" questions already. The Soldier knew questions were dangerous, would get his target into serious trouble. This man was clearly very valuable to Pierce and the rest of HYDRA, and he had his mission to prevent him from finding out anything of important about his current situation while he protected him.

"Shh," The Asset hushed him softly, pressing his palm to the man's forehead a moment later. He tried to emulate the behavior of the white coated techs and doctors, tried to do what would be considered 'normal' although his own instincts growled at him for lying like this. He'd lied to countless people before while on missions, yet he seemed to have trouble with it on this one. "Your lungs are damaged, don't try to talk." As long as he didn't tell him about where he was he was permitted to keep him calm through any means necessary. Otherwise the guards outside would put him down, and the thought sat heavy in his mind.

His target didn't take his eyes off of him, which were now the bright vibrant blue that his memories seemed to recall them being, watching him in confusion. It was as if the man was trying to memorize every detail in his face. He kept his left hand firmly pressed against his side, knowing any glimpse of it might jeopardize his mission as the tech had said.

"You're injured and you need to rest," the Soldier suddenly spoke up, nerves fraying the slightest bit under his target's scrutiny, "I'll keep watch." The tension seemed to leak slowly out of the man the more he talked, but no doubt he was not going to be anywhere near healthy or functioning for weeks and his own exhaustion was playing a significant factor. It was working in the Soldier's favor, at least. He started to turn to go back to his silent vigil, but before he could he felt hesitant fingers grip his right wrist, the grip tentative and weak.

"I… I know m'dreaming…" the man's voice was raspy and wheezy, but somehow still mournful, "… but… p-please stay, Buck." He asked softly, sounding almost like a plead, and something colder than even cryosleep shot through the Soldier's heart. He nodded slightly and felt the man's grip tighten as if he was afraid he'd disappear if he let go. The Soldier hadn't even realized he'd returned the gesture, wrapping his hand gently around the other's wrist, until he saw tears in the man's eyes, heard his mumbled, broken apologies.

When Pierce came to collect the Soldier the following morning and found him sitting on the cot with Captain Rogers, their hands still intertwined, he knew his plan for the lost Captain America was going to work.


End file.
